


You be yours and I'll be mine

by solarfemm



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Retirement, Thor's mead made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 04:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarfemm/pseuds/solarfemm
Summary: Bucky remembers Steve’s flushed face smiling at him, holding him close, a crowd of their friends clapping for them and cheering them on, and—he looks down at his left hand. “Uh, Steve?”Steve takes a moment to focus on the hand Bucky holds up, but then his eyes go wide and he looks down at his own left hand.“That,” he says pointedly, “that’s a ring.”“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “We both have them.”“Oh, god. We got married, didn’t we?” Steve sounds like he’s trying not to panic.“Seems that way,” Bucky says, before he bursts out laughing at the bewildered look on Steve’s face. “Come on, pal. It’s not the end of the world.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is situated firmly in the “Infinity War? Endgame? IDK that bitch” camp

Bucky’s better at waking now than he used to be, after increasing his sleep in increments over the first eight months of living in Steve’s Red Hook apartment until it totalled seven consecutive hours, but when he wakes up on an average May day, it’s with a splitting hangover and the feeling of having done something extremely stupid.

He used to get those feelings a lot back in Brooklyn, before the war, when he and Steve would sneak a bottle of whiskey from Mr K at the diner, who knew a guy who knew a guy, and get drunk on Steve’s fire escape while he insisted he could drink Bucky under the table but usually passed out after five drinks. So Steve would pace himself, and they would get uproariously drunk and eventually do something stupid like get in a fight with some asshole or follow a dame into a bar who turned out to be charging for her services, which Bucky wasn’t ashamed of, but Steve, for all his liberal attitudes, said it wasn’t really his thing, even though he respected it. 

Apparently, the stupidity followed them into the 21st century. He rolls over to find Steve’s pale back facing him, and the ever-present fear of losing him at any moment subsides. They share a bed most nights now, more often than not, because Bucky needs to know where Steve is. When he wakes up in the middle of the night, he needs to reach out to find Steve’s warm body next to his to stop his instincts taking over. It would end up that Bucky would crawl into Steve’s bed anyway when he couldn’t sleep, and while Bucky’s better at not doing that now, Steve seems to like the company.

He reaches out to touch Steve’s soldier, and Steve starts awake, rolling over immediately.

“What timezit?”

It’s only when Bucky sits up that his head starts spinning and he feels sick enough to realise that, yes, something happened last night, and yes, it was probably extremely stupid. “Ugh. God. Were we drinking?”

“Uh.” Steve scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t look like his usual fresh-faced self. He’s greasy and he smells like alcohol-sweat. “I remember Thor came down with a barrel of Asgardian mead.”

“That fucker and his mead.” It’s the only thing that has an effect on them, and he busts it out at every chance he gets just to watch Steve’s face turn red and pry the truth out of him one embarrassing secret at a time. Unfortunately for all of them playing the what-truths-is-Captain-America-hiding game, it always turns maudlin when he recounts stories from the war, but Thor insists on bringing the alcohol anyway. Bucky doesn’t mind; he knows all of Steve’s secrets but it’s cute getting him riled up and loose-limbed. 

“There was a party. I remember a gazebo and a buffet.”

Bucky remembers Steve’s flushed face smiling at him, holding him close, a crowd of their friends clapping for them and cheering them on, and—he looks down at his left hand. “Uh, Steve?”

Steve takes a moment to focus on the hand Bucky holds up, but then his eyes go wide and he looks down at his own left hand.

“That,” he says pointedly, “that’s a ring.”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “We both have them.”

“Oh, god. We got married, didn’t we?” Steve sounds like he’s trying not to panic.

“Seems that way,” Bucky says, before he bursts out laughing at the bewildered look on Steve’s face. “Come on, pal. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I just—why? Why would we get married?”

Bucky bites back the list of reasons he’s been building on since 1934. “For the love of the game, obviously.”

Steve hides his face in his hands and groans. Bucky stares at the ring on his finger, the gold contrasting with the sleek black metal of his hand, and for the first time thinks maybe not giving up his arm is better for more than practical reasons, because now he has a finger for Steve to put a ring on. He takes Steve’s hand and peels it from his face.

“Hey, buddy. It’s probably not even legal. We need to wait 24 hours between getting the license and getting married.”

Steve doesn’t ask him how he knows this, and Bucky refuses to give the information over willingly.

“Yeah, okay.” Steve sighs and drops his hands onto his chest. “We need to start reigning in Thor’s partying, though.”

“I ain’t his keeper,” Bucky grumbles, then sighs too when Steve gives him a disapproving look. “Okay, sure. I’ll talk to Val.”

“Better off talking to Carol. Val and Thor are as bad as each other.”

Bucky falls back on the bed with a grunt. It’s not unusual for them to end up like this, talking the morning away, pressed flushed together. They spoon sometimes, which Bucky is embarrassed that he needs because he’d rather give Steve space, but Steve reassures him it’s fine, and that Steve Lack-Of-Boundaries Rogers can be what he needs when he needs it. 

“We need to assess the damage,” Steve says, a bit frenzied. Bucky reaches under his pillow and extracts his phone, which he drops on Steve’s chest because just the thought of looking at the bright screen makes his head throb. Steve knows his passcode, obviously, because he’s a lot of things to Bucky—most notably his best friend, his confidante, and his next of kin—and scrolls through Bucky’s news feed. Bucky watches his face grow paler the more he scrolls. “Okay, so, we definitely had a ceremony. Lots of people were there, not just the Avengers, but fans too once they realised where we were. Someone brought a cake. Oh, here’s a picture of me smooshing cake into your face. That’s normal. Great.”

Steve’s forcibly-light tone makes Bucky laugh again and he chances a glance at the screen. “Oh, ‘Captain America, the bisexual we didn’t know we needed’. That’s a catchy headline.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “I’ve never said I was—you know what? You’re enjoying this too much.” Steve chucks the phone on the nightstand and gets up. He stretches for a couple seconds while Bucky’s laughter fades, and then he’s out of the bedroom while Bucky’s, “Wait, Steve—” leaves his mouth.

He catches up with Steve in the kitchen, where the remainder of the cake sits on the bench as if to mock them for their mistake—if that’s what it is. 

“Is it really that bad?” Bucky asks. He means to sound nonchalant, and it must come off that way because Steve arcs up.

“No, of course not. Men can get married. I mean, we’re living together, it’s 2019, no one cares. I just—I don’t get why we would. We’re not in a relationship. It’s so out of the blue.”

Bucky tries not to retreat into himself at the words. He knows why he would want to marry Steve. He knows why he _did_ marry Steve, because he’s been in love with Steve since they were kids. “You’re right. It was stupid. I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he stares at the cake. It’s a mostly collapsed, sad-looking thing that Bucky remembers tasting amazing. If he thinks about it, he can remember what kissing Steve felt like, as well as the rush of standing in front of all their friends and saying this one—this one is the one I want. This one is the one I choose to be with.

Knowing that it was just a drunken mistake to Steve breaks his heart in a way he turns away to hide. “I’m gonna have a shower,” Bucky says, and makes himself scarce.

~

By the time he gets out of the shower and checks his phone, he has 108 messages from his “friends” that include links to shared drives of hundreds of photos, several news reports and one New York Times article about how Captain America and Bucky Barnes’s century-long love affair is uniting people in desperate times. He finds their tuxes balled up in a pile on the floor, but luckily they thought to put pyjamas on before they got into bed. Bucky feels sick to his stomach, and he does the only logical thing.

Sam picks up on the second ring, sounding way too cheerful for the morning after Bucky ruined his own life and relationship with the only person he really, truly cares about.

“I fucked up,” he says, and Sam sighs.

“Already? That was quick. I thought you’d at least last the honeymoon period.”

“No, I mean—marrying Steve.”

Bucky can practically sense Sam’s furrowed brow; the concern in his voice is evident. “You wanna explain to me how marrying the guy you’re in love with was a fuck up? Because I have several hundred photos from Peter and the internet that show it was the happiest you’ve ever been in this century.”

“Because,” Bucky says, stressing every syllable, “Steve doesn’t know I’m in love with him.”

There’s a pause over the line. “I don’t know if you dissociated during last night, Barnes, but I think he does.”

“We were drunk, we may as well have dissociated.”

Sam sighs his long-suffering, I’m-friends-with-Steve-Rogers sigh, except this time it’s an I’m-friends-with-Bucky-Barnes sigh. “Listen to me. Are you listening? I have heard Steve wax lyrical about every eyelash on your face for the whole two years we were looking for you, and then for another two years once we got you back. There’s no way that Steve doesn’t want to marry you. He actually, and I don’t know if you know this, did marry you. I have a marriage celebrant who will swear to God and country that she married you, and plus, I was there. I saw the love myself. Do I need to say love again? Because that’s what you have.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “I know I love him. Maybe he just doesn’t love me like that.”

Sam must pull the phone away from himself because when he swears it’s muffled and far away. “Holy sh—Barnes. I swear to god. Get a grip.”

He hangs up, and Bucky is just as lost as he was before the phone call.

Natasha picks up on the first ring and her and Clint’s voices sound through the phone as they sing, “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white, slipped on a banana peel and went for a ride,” before he hangs up. So, he’s on his own then. The last thing he wants to do is burden T’Challa, an actual king, with his problems, and other than that he has very few friends. Thor got them into this mess, and it’s not like Carol will care about his relationship—marriage, his marriage—problems. They all have better things to do than nurse Bucky through his various breakdowns. 

So he does what he always does nowadays, which is go for a run and hope the way his muscles burn from the punishing pace will distract him from his real problems.

~

Steve is, honestly, the stupidest motherfucker alive. So stupid, in fact, it was probably his idea to get married in the first place. He looks in the mirror, ignoring how the steam rises from the shower and clouds the glass, daring his own reflection to prove him wrong. He clearly has no self-preservation instincts, because toppling the stacked plates of his and Bucky’s life in what was, until now, a delicate balancing act while Bucky is still recovering and Steve is still dealing with his own shit, both in therapy and out of it, proves just how careless he really is when put to the test. Or put to the mead. Goddamnit, he really needs to learn how to say no to Thor.

Every time he looks in the mirror it’s the same story: him, 25 years old, his nose crooked but otherwise everything in place. He’s as new as the day he was born in Erskine’s lab, in the middle of a war he was determined to win. He’s still as foolhardy as ever, as though every time he learns some new lesson he gets reset back to his reckless, 25 year old self. He’s never going to age, or die. He slept for 70 years in ice and woke up refreshed. And Bucky— 

Bucky is aging. Not as fast as he would without what was done to him, but he’s still mortal. He still goes nights without sleeping, paces the rooms of their apartment when he’s full of restless energy, and has nightmares that make him pull Steve close when they’re sleeping in the same bed, or crawl into Steve’s bed in the middle of the night when they sleep apart. Bucky has his own issues, and most days Steve’s not sure whether it’s a good thing for them to be together, or if by being together, living together, sleeping in the same bed together, and now, god, married is better or worse for them, if they’re just sealing their fates as a codependent couple doomed to drive each other to madness. 

But the thought of anything else, of not waking up with Bucky next to him, of not being able to have breakfast together, or not knowing he’s safe when he turns off the lights at night, is so overwhelmingly paralysing that Steve has to put it out of his mind. It’s one of the things he’s working on in therapy, to varying success.

Maybe that’s why they got married. It’s probably not because Bucky is in love with him, or whatever, the way that he is in love with Bucky, and has been for some time now. It’s probably because Steve is a sucker in every which way when it comes to Bucky, and Steve’s mead-fueled brain thought he could lock Bucky down and keep him close. Why the hell Bucky said yes is beyond Steve, unless they’ve been drinking the same Kool-Aid and have already become the codependent mess Steve fears they will be. He’s never been in a long-term relationship before, but, if this is what it’s like, he’s not surprised most marriages fail. 

He sighs and gets into the shower, leaning into it while the water scalds his skin pink.

~

Bucky pauses before he enters the apartment building, a bag full of banh mi in his hand and a coffee in the other. It’s lunch time and Steve will be waiting for Bucky to get back before he eats. The fact that Bucky knows this is proof of how intertwined their lives have become, how entrenched they are in this life of domestic happiness and the facade of nothing going wrong between them. But—nothing has gone wrong between them. Steve has very patiently weathered Bucky’s emotional disturbance over the past three years while barely dealing with his own, and now Bucky’s left Wakanda to live with him, they’re together and happy about it.

Right? They’re happy. Bucky is the happiest he’s ever been. He’s even stopped waiting for Zemo to come pararolling through the living room wall with a bazooka in his hand, ready to end it all. But now this—the ring on his hand, the marriage ceremony they don’t remember—has put their relationship under a microscope. He can’t help the needling voice in his head that says he’s ruined everything. Steve didn’t seem happy about it, so what does that mean? That he’s regretting their relationship? That maybe Steve has outgrown him and he doesn’t need Bucky as much anymore?

The coffee is growing cold as he dawdles on the sidewalk. It’s getting colder in the afternoons, and Bucky never does well in it, anymore. Funny that the Winter Soldier can’t stand the winter. It cuts through him like a knife and leaves him stiff and sore, months of his bones aching and body creaking as he struggles to get warm. Steve helps with that, bought him an electric blanket and lets Bucky wrap himself around him because Steve always runs hot. Steve saves him, again and again. And now Bucky’s fucked everything up.

The shower is running when Bucky finally makes his way into the apartment, so he grabs plates from the kitchen and brings them onto the balcony where they’ve set up chairs and a table, plating the food, digging into his own while he waits for Steve to get out of the shower. Bucky never wanted for things in Wakanda, and had gotten used to having access to anything he wanted after so long of being deprived of anything he needed, then two years on the run stealing wallets to pay for street food, shuffling from one empty safehouse to the next, dodging Steve and Hydra at every turn. In Wakanda, there was peace and safety. Now Bucky’s back in New York, there’s less of that, but at least there’s Steve, and banh mi. 

He finishes two and sits back to survey the river and enjoy their view. It’s a nice life they have. Bucky wants for nothing, still. He’s thinking of taking a nap when Steve emerges, shirtless, scrubbing a towel through his hair, and smelling like his $65 coconut-mint body wash that Bucky wants to eat off his toned stomach. He gives a low whistle when Steve steps onto the balcony, saying, “Looking good, Stevie,” just to watch him roll his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Eyes to yourself.”

“Brought you some food.”

“Great, I’m starving.” He lays the towel on the back of his chair and sits, ripping into the food as if to prove he is indeed starving. Bucky tries not to stare at him, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind when he stares, figures it’s just a Bucky thing he does now, like walking around with at least two concealed weapons at any given time and always putting the peanut butter in the blender before the protein powder. But Steve likes him for who he is. It’s a sobering thought, but comforting, too.

“I forgot to tell you, Tony called the other day.”

Bucky feels his throat constrict at every mention of the Starks. No matter how many times Steve tells Bucky it wasn’t his fault, Bucky thinks about their time in the war, and then he thinks about choking Maria and smashing Howard’s face in, and he feels lousy all over again. Howard was a good man. He didn’t deserve that end.

“Oh? And what did Tony Stark have to say?”

“He mentioned that cabin.”

“Howard’s?”

“Yeah. It’s been abandoned for years, but he says if we want to we can fix it up.”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, too quickly to be the truth. “He said we could have it.”

Steve doesn’t look at him, pretending to be too focused on his food, and then it clicks in Bucky’s mind. “Oh, it’s a _wedding present_. Oh, man, this is too good.” He throws his head back and laughs while Steve scowls. “He said that, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Steve admits, around a mouthful of food. 

“And what did you say?”

Steve swallows. “I said we’d fix it up. We’ve got nothing better to do, right?”

A spark of hope flares in Bucky’s chest, hope that what they haven’t isn’t going to be over soon, that they can continue for a while in their blissful bubble, away from the harsh realities of the world. He fiddles with the ring on his finger.

“Sure, pal. We can pack up, head to the mountains, start a new life as woodsmen. Let’s retire early. We’ve earned it.”

Steve’s eyes crinkle in a smile, all embarrassment gone, and the hope flares brighter.

~

The cabin turns out to be in the Adirondacks, which Bucky disagrees with.

“I wanted a holiday to a real forest. This is just a day trip. To fucking _upstate New York_. Give me a break.”

Steve doesn’t mind it. It’s still away from the city, even if it’s surrounded on all sides by glampers, and it’s quiet. The cabin itself is run down, clearly hasn’t been used in years, covered in cobwebs, with rotting floorboards and moth-eaten carpets. He steps carefully through the entry room as he surveys the damage. He hears something rip in the other room and Bucky swear, and a few seconds later Bucky comes back out holding a sink.

“Let’s just tear the whole thing down and start again,” he says, and Steve nods. So that’s what they do.

~

The tearing down part of it is the most fun, because they kick down walls and literally tear the cabin apart with their hands like little kids with Lego. The cabin itself is only 900 square feet so it only takes the rest of the day to kick and tear and then cart the termite-eaten wood and everything else away from the cabin site before they can think about what they want to do.

Neither of them have extensive experience building a cabin, or cottage, or house, or whatever, but, though city boys at heart they may be, they were in the army for two years doing shit on the western front that taught them the value of hard work. So Steve Googles, Bucky gets out the sandwiches from the cooler in the car, and they sit down to figure out exactly what they need to do this. The woods are quiet and remind Steve of visiting Wakanda, seeing Bucky happy and healing, watching him tend to his vegetable garden and search the chicken hutch for eggs. It seemed the most peaceful time of his life, even before the war. He didn’t have any responsibilities or rent to pay, he didn’t have to try and scrounge together food or supplies or money for electricity, and he sure didn’t have a war to fight. 

Steve almost regretted taking him away from it to bring him back to Red Hook, even though they both knew Wakanda was only a temporary resting point before Bucky got on with his life and came back to America. He confided in Steve that’s where he wanted to be, back on home soil, back to what was familiar, comfortable, still his favourite place in the world. And Steve wanted him back; no matter how much changed, Steve always thought the endgame for them would be back in Brooklyn as if the war never happened, as if the last seventy years never happened, just the two of them sharing an apartment again. Steve would even take his sickly, pre-serum body if it meant he could have that life with Bucky. It was a foolish thing to want, but he’s got it now. He’s got everything he wanted.

He looks down at the ring on his finger, a quintessential gold. It glints in the sunlight dappling through the trees. For a few years after Steve woke up, men couldn’t even get married, and he’d just come from a time when they could get thrown out of the army for being together. It wore him down in ways, that he had to sneak around with guys, couldn’t bring them home, couldn’t hold their hand in the street. He went two years without sex in the army for a number of reasons, one being that he was hung up on Peggy, and another being that he didn’t want to implicate anyone else. He might not get court martialed, but the other guy could’ve, and Steve didn’t want to ruin somebody’s life just for a quick fuck in the camp showers. It was still a bit too risky to go with the locals, too.

There’s no way he would’ve propositioned Bucky. It didn’t matter that Steve was hung up on him too, because he never made a move before the war and he wasn’t going to while it was on. Killing nazis and Hydra agents was messy. When they did have downtime, Steve was too busy thanking God, Jesus, Mary and anyone who would listen that Bucky was still alive, not trying to get a hand down his pants. Besides, Bucky never gave any indication he was queer. He didn’t ask Steve about the hickies or where he went at night while Bucky was at the dancehalls with his girls, and Steve never volunteered the information. It’s not like he hid who he was, and it’s not like Bucky didn’t know, but there’s a difference between hiding and being completely upfront about it. He never said anything, and Bucky never said anything, and that was that.

It’s not like Steve’s been celibate since then, but the few flings he’s had haven’t amounted to much. He kissed Sam, back before all this began, in Sam’s house after the VA meeting, a pleasant afternoon of making out on his couch, but then—well, Steve’s past caught up to him. His only thought since Bucky came back was getting him back, getting him well, getting him home. Everything else was secondary. 

As if reading Steve’s mind, Bucky breaks the easy silence between them. “Did I ever tell you about the date I went on with that girl Molly? When I first came back to New York.”

Steve thinks about it for a second. “Nope. The heart emojis on her profile pic?”

“Yep.” Bucky makes an expression like he can’t believe it either.

“She was cute.”

“Yeah, a real looker. Very, ah, forward.”

“You can horny, Buck.”

Bucky laughs. “What, you won’t die of shock? Saint Stevie, shut up tighter than a nun.”

Steve laughs as well, because he both is and isn’t far from the truth. “Yeah, that’s me. Never touched anyone else in my life. What’s a nipple? Beats me.”

“Anyway,” Bucky continues through his laughter, “so we meet at a coffee shop, like people do nowadays. Public place, plenty of people around, you know the drill, but it’s pretty clear soon enough that she wants more than just a coffee.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Everybody wants you, Buck, we get the picture.”

Bucky ignores him. “We go back to her place and start fooling around. We start getting into it, clothes come off, but when she sees the arm she starts to go wild. I mean, like, unstoppable. She starts talking dirty about it—I won’t go into details—” Steve sighs in relief. “—figures I’m one of the Avengers, right? Anyway, I start mentally rethinking my decision to come back to hers, and thinking of an escape plan. She tries to pin me down to the couch, and I’m going along with it because I don’t want to hurt her. Luckily, her roommate chooses that moment to walk in on us and she gets embarrassed, starts covering up, and I use that as my excuse to get the hell out of there.”

Steve’s laughing now, watching Bucky go a bit red in the face. “What did you do?”

“Booked it, naturally. Heard them arguing as I left. Turns out her roommate was her brother and he had a problem with her bringing guys over. I’m lucky I got out of there alive.”

“Lucky Bucky, they should call you.”

Bucky barks out a laugh. God, he looks so beautiful in the sunlight, his skin a rich cream, his hair with that natural sheen. “You know, that’s the first time I ever heard that.”

“I could’ve sworn I called you that. Maybe not to your face.”

Bucky shrugs. “That was pretty much my last encounter with anyone romantically while I’ve been back. With women, at least.”

The last comment hits Steve harder than he thought finding out Bucky isn’t straight would. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s always been easier with guys. Don’t have to buy ‘em drinks first.”

“Yeah, Grindr’s the way to go.” He keeps himself collected, all things considered, but he tucks the knowledge away for the day when he can use it. Maybe he’ll get Bucky a boyfriend, someone who doesn’t care that he and Steve are married. People never had a problem with that in the past. The only difference now is that the married couple can be men.

~

Bucky’s heart beats hard in his chest. God, he just _came out_ to Steve, for the first time in their hundred year history. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Bucky’s into men because they are literally married, but he’s never said the words, never articulated that it’s not just women he likes, loves, whatever. One man he loves. Christ, he can’t say that. Can he? They’re married, he should be able to say whatever he likes. Except—it’s not real. They were drunk, so it doesn’t count. All the times Bucky came home drunk and fell into Steve’s bed and said, “Love you, Stevie, you’re the best fella a guy could have,” and Steve laughed and pushed him away, they didn’t count. The times Bucky cried himself to sleep thinking about his draft letter and how it meant he would die over there, jesus christ, he was going to die in the mud and shit of a battlefield in Europe while Steve tried desperately to die with him, well they didn’t count either, because he’s alive, ain’t he? Maybe, barely, but he is. They’ve both still got their rings on, so that means something, at least. What, Bucky doesn’t know just yet.

“We need stuff,” Steve says, scrolling through something on his phone. “Supplies.”

“Don’t we need zoning permits? A license?”

“Yeah, but I talked to Tony, he said he’s got it all worked out.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. He never really did patch things up with Tony, but if he’s good with Steve then he’s good with Bucky. “What do we need?”

“Wood, for one.”

“No shit, you think?”

Steve lists of the supplies they need to do something like build a cabin in the woods, because apparently they’re lumberjacks now. They have the beards for it. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t dream about this, back when he could think more than a few hours into the future—bringing Steve out to the countryside where the air would be clearer and better for his lungs, where they could fish everyday and bathe in a stream like woodland creatures. No matter the impression Bucky gave Steve, he didn’t really care for the city; he only cared that his people were there, his family, Steve. He wasn’t going to leave them. 

He told Steve that he wanted to go back to Brooklyn because it was home, but that was a lie. It wasn’t that he cares about America any more than he cares about any other place they could’ve ended up, it’s that he knows that Steve would always be bound to America, no matter how his life panned out. That’s where the Avengers are and that’s where his home is, and Bucky accepted it, because he wanted to be with Steve. He still does. It’s what’s most important to him.

The ring feels heavy on his finger, and he can feel it now—his old arm couldn’t feel anything, but Shuri made this one special. He can feel the warmth of someone else’s skin where his fingertips touch them, their lips on the metal, the warm Spring breeze. He thinks about Steve touching his arm with his warm, sure hands, and he has to look away from him, into the distance where the woods are thickest, chewing on the crust of his sandwich just for something to do. 

He snaps his attention back to Steve as he finishes listing off whatever the shit is that they need. Bucky really does not care, but Steve has this look on his face that he always gets when there’s something new and fun to do, and Bucky thanks his lucky stars that it’s something normal like building a cabin and not jumping off a cliff over a ravine just to see if he could get to the other side. 

“You up for all that?” God, Steve is beautiful, smiling like a dope, lit up by the dying sunlight, and Bucky would do anything, anything in the world, to make him keep smiling like that, so he nods, opens his mouth in a grin, says, “Anything you want, pal,” and Steve beams.

~

They pack up for the day after that and head back to their apartment, where they shower in their respective en suites, washing the woods off themselves, and Steve, not for the first time, soaps himself up thinking about Bucky doing the same. He doesn’t dwell on the thoughts that come, just lets them filter through his conscious mind like water through his hands, picturing Bucky’s body as the shower spray hits him, droplets clinging to his beard, imagines him standing in the shower for the whole forty-five minutes he always takes just letting himself enjoy the heat and the pressure and the feeling of something he wasn’t allowed for so long. Maybe it’s embarrassing that Steve gets hard thinking of Bucky safe and happy more than thinking of him naked and wet, but it is what it is. Bucky is safe, and he is happy, Steve knows it. Happier in some ways than when they were young adults, a time Steve looks back on fondly if only for the ways he and Bucky were inseparable.

Well, they’re still inseparable. They spend most of their days together, going out, seeing friends, celebrating IDAHOBIT and the like with Peter and his classmates, helping out at the local refugee center and VA, talking to the local council members about things like recycling awareness and waste reduction, taking trips to wherever the hell it is they want to go, even though most of the time they just want to stay here. They’ve seen the world already, even though it was usually on fire. Steve doesn’t care about expensive dinners along the Seine, presidential suites, or speedboat tours. He’s old; he just wants to relax. And Bucky? He doesn’t know what Bucky wants, but he knows Bucky is happy doing what Steve wants to do. Maybe they will retire to a cabin in the Adirondacks. Now that Sam’s taken up the thankless mantle of being Captain America, they can. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

When he gets out of the shower his phone buzzes on the bed with a few messages from Nat. He hasn’t opened the drive yet, still too horrified from getting married to the man he loves who does not love him back to look at the pictures, but the messages Nat sent him recently are short.

_Found this while I was looking for more blackmail material. Thought you might like it._

Following that is an eight second video, which he opens up as his heart starts to beat faster. It’s of him and Bucky swaying to music playing from speakers set up around a DJ booth—of course there was a DJ booth, with friends like Steve’s—both of them blotchy-faced and smiling like dorks. They look at each other for a couple seconds, and Steve’s eyes cross with how close Bucky is, before Bucky leans in, and—god, of course he does, Steve meets him there in a sloppy, drunken kiss that their friends cheer for. 

It lasts for six seconds before Nat’s phone cuts off, and Steve is frozen from what he just saw. Bucky kissed him, Steve. James Buchanan Barnes kissed Steven Grant Rogers. His heart is still beating a wild tattoo in his chest. He might be having a panic attack. Does this mean Bucky wants to kiss him, now? When he’s drunk, at least? He’s never given any indication that he wants to kiss Steve when he’s sober, so maybe it’s one of those things they only do when they’re drunk, like—fucking get married in front of all their friends. No wonder everyone thinks they’re together. He looks at the next message.

_He’s good for you. You deserve to be happy._

Steve feels his throat constrict before he tosses his phone back on his bed and gets dressed in a soft shirt and sweatpants. The sun went down long before they got back but neither of them noticed, so he walks through the apartment turning on the lights until he gets to the kitchen, where he sets to putting the collapsed cake away, stealing a couple pieces for himself. It tastes like buttercream and chocolate, and Steve wonders how they could make something like this that’s vegan, but, well. They’re the Avengers. They make things happen. After he’s done he pulls two bottles of kombucha from the fridge and settles on the sofa. His sketchbook lies on the coffee table, open to his last drawing—Bucky asleep at the other end of the sofa, curled up like a cat, drooling on his own arm. Steve flips through it now, looking at all the drawings that fill the pages—Bucky on the balcony, reading a book. Bucky meditating on a yoga mat. Bucky lying in the grass surrounded by pigeons. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. How he’s managed to keep his undying love a secret from the man he’s in love with is beyond him.

Maybe he hasn’t, though. Maybe Bucky knows, like he always knew Steve was queer, and hasn’t said anything, because he doesn’t feel the same. What Steve feels—it must eke out of him like sweat. Everyone else knows how he feels. In the whole two years he, Sam and Nat were looking for Bucky Steve knows what they thought of him, how he couldn’t let Bucky go even though it was probably the best thing for him, how every time he broke down they shared knowing looks with each other as though he couldn’t tell they were more worried about him than the man they were looking for. But Steve didn’t care, and he still doesn’t care what other people think of him. He only cares what Bucky thinks of him.

He starts doodling in his sketchbook while he waits, but when the night settles in deeper and turns cool Steve closes all the windows, turns the heater on, pulls out Bucky’s electric blanket from Steve’s room where he used it last, and sets it up on the sofa just as Bucky’s coming out of his bedroom, rugged up in a bathrobe with his hair wrapped in a towel. Steve has to stifle a laugh. 

Bucky drops onto the couch beside him and immediately gets his nose in Steve’s business. “What are you drawing?”

“You as a woman,” Steve lies. What is he drawing? It looks kind of like the Statue of Liberty, if the Statue of Liberty was a cat.

“Do I have a nice rack?”

“Always.”

“Well, what more could a man ask for?” Bucky settles back into the couch and pulls his phone out from somewhere, scrolling through it absentmindedly.

Steve keeps doodling, throwing occasional glances at him for inspiration. “A fourteen-inch cock and a few hundred virgins?” 

“Christ, no. You’d poke someone’s eye out with that thing and what use are virgins?”

“Sacrifices, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Bucky lets out a sharp laugh and shows his phone to Steve. “‘Avengers as The Onion Headlines’. I was waiting for something like this.” 

He scrolls through them as Steve looks over his shoulder. The first one is a picture of the Avengers surrounding Loki and Thor after the battle of Manhattan with a caption box that says, “Man Trying To Enter Conversation Spends Few Minutes Smiling And Nodding At Edge Of Circle”. The next is just of Thor and Loki, and reads, “Siblings Quietly Relieved Oldest Brother Setting Bar So Low”. It continues like this, the captions getting funnier as they go on, Bucky laughing harder at each one, until he stops at one of the two of them taken outside a bodega where Steve is handing Bucky a hoagie that says, “But If We Started Dating It Would Ruin Our Friendship Where I Ask You To Do Things And You Do Them”. Steve’s stomach twists, and Bucky looks at him sideways. 

“Well, I guess they didn’t get the memo that we’re married.”

Steve shoves him to try to break the tension. “They’re not wrong, are they? You’re always asking me to do things and I’m always doing them.”

Bucky’s eyes bulge as he stares at him. “You? Doing anything anyone asks you to? That’s hilarious. No, that’s a whole riot. I asked you to stop looking for me for two years and you decidedly did not do that.”

Steve sinks lower into the sofa. He has no comeback for that, because that’s exactly what happened. “Yeah, but it’s different now.”

“Yeah, now you do things without me even asking you. Which is—” Bucky looks away, pulls his phone close to himself. “Thanks.” His voice is low, soft, quiet. “It’s nice, how you anticipate my needs. You don’t have to, though.”

“I know.” Steve can’t help but feel he has to defend himself. “But you looked after me for so long, 20 years or thereabouts. It’s only fair you have someone look after you.”

The silence that elapses between them is loaded, and they don’t look at each other for a minute, each pretending anything is more interesting than the other. Steve wants to kiss Bucky so badly it hurts. His hand is right there, right there, Steve could reach out and hold it if he had the courage to. Two years in the army and eight years fighting battles for SHIELD and the Avengers and he’s still a goddamn coward when it comes to Bucky. No wonder Bucky doesn’t want him, if he can’t even hold his fucking hand, can’t reach across the six inches of air and nothing to touch Bucky’s hand, entangle their fingers, stroke the plates of his metal thumb. Who _would_ want Steve?

Bucky clears his throat and taps on his phone. A second later the tv is on and something about rugby is happening and Bucky’s hands are to himself again, moment gone, quashed, evaporated, Steve left wondering just what the hell he’s doing if it’s not what he wants to.

~

The next day they stop at the hardware store at ass o’clock in the morning to pick up the tools they need. It’s so eerily domestic, shopping together like this, to build something with their own two hands. Bucky figures this is what married couples do, and they are married, so screw it, that’s what they’re doing. Bucky keeps picking up random objects and saying, “Do you think we’ll need this?”, Steve laughing every time, a delicious sound Bucky can’t get enough of, that bright sparkle in his eyes because he really does love this—and if Bucky knew all he needed to get that smile out of him was offer to help him build something, he would’ve done it a long time ago. They could have many cabins in many woods, houses along the waterfront, giant pieces of fruit, immense structures in backwater towns that would topple just so they could build them again. Anything Steve wants.

They fill their Bucky’s wheelbarrow and Steve’s cart with the various tools they need according to LogCabinHub.com, and once they’ve paid for them they load them up into the truck they’re renting. “We should just change our names to Mr and Mr Woods,” Bucky says.

“Don’t think we’ve earned that until we build the thing first.”

Bucky triple checks they have everything they need on Steve’s list because Steve’s too over-eager to try and like hell they’re taking another trip down the mountain and into the city just to pick up a screwdriver or a battery. Then it’s a six hour drive with sleeping bags, blankets, toilet paper, a tent and enough cans of food to last two supersoldiers three days because they don’t plan on making that drive every day. 

The good thing about the site is that the concrete foundation is already laid, so all they have to do is fell the trees, debark, notch, raise, chink and insulate to build the walls and roof, lay down the flooring, and then worry about the interior later. They could rip the trees out with their bare hands, but Steve insisted they do it the right way, since they already bought the chainsaws, axes and wedges to do it with, so Bucky spends the first twenty minutes wrestling with a chainsaw, trying to get it to work without ripping the pull string off before he remembers that he has to put fuel in the thing, while Steve laughs his ass off. The joke’s on him though, because he’s no better, even after watching Bucky. 

It’s a glorious day of doing something Bucky never thought he would do, taking breaks to watch Steve sweat it out under the sun, using his hands and muscles in a way they weren’t designed for. It’s amazing. Bucky loves him so much. Bucky is in love with him so much.

They stop just as nightfall comes, with about half of the trees felled. Bucky can tell Steve is sore from all the work, Bucky too, but it doesn’t take them long to recover—they make dinner from baked beans, popcorn, pre-made protein shakes, rotisserie chicken for Steve and quinoa salad with approximately eighteen ingredients for Bucky, and by that time they’re fighting fit again. 

Bucky pulls out the sleeping bags, but thinks better of the tent. “Thought we could sleep under the stars,” he says, and Steve smiles like he thinks that’s a good idea, so they do that. They lie next to each other on a patch of ground near the cabin site, and it’s reminiscent of their time in the army, huddled around a campfire as Jim played the harmonica and Gabe sang off-key but happily, all of them making the best they could of a shitty situation. When the cold starts to set in and Bucky starts shivering, he looks over his shoulder at Steve, trying not to look like he needs him so desperately. “Can we—”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, rolling onto his side and pulling Bucky close, as close as he can with two layers of sleeping bag between them. Bucky still feels Steve’s heat, and as he falls asleep with the stars and moon shining on them like they’re the only two people in the world, he can fool himself into believing it’s real. 

~

The next few days are some of the best of Steve’s life. All he needs is something to do, and Bucky to do it with. He gets wood shavings in his eye, cuts his hands all over from chiselling, and almost saws his fingers off. Bucky watches with both horror and amusement, somehow managing to not injure himself repeatedly as he does everything Steve does, only better. 

“You’re a natural,” Steve says, watching Bucky cut his 38th tree. 

“What?” Bucky shouts over the roar of the chainsaw, safety glasses on and earplugs in. Steve shakes his head and watches him work for another minute before getting back into it. 

Out here it’s idyllic, peaceful, enchanting. They eat protein bars and a fuckton of vegetables and bathe in a river. Bucky’s brought seeds and he plants them towards the back of the plot, claiming he’ll do something with them once they start growing. “I want peas,” he says, using a thermos full of river water to water them. “I want to grow a pea and eat it.” He’s full of life out here, tanned from the sun, relaxing a lot and smiling more. It’s all Steve has wanted for him.

They head back down to the city after they’ve cut down all the wood they need and started the notching, and it’s overwhelming at first to jump back into the noisy and hectic atmosphere of New York after living in the mountains for three days, shitting in the woods and washing themselves down with river water. Traffic is blocked up and the air clogs his lungs and throat. As soon as they hit the city it’s like his insecurities start coming back, too, lying dormant as they were.

“I didn’t really miss it,” Steve says, and Bucky looks at him.

“Really? You’re the most city boy I know.”

Steve shrugs. “I used to be, I guess. I’m not so sure anymore.”

Bucky continues to look at him for another minute while Steve drives across the bridge and pretends he doesn’t notice. He’s aware of Bucky’s eyes on him a lot and tries not to feel too flayed apart by his gaze. If Steve wants it to be more than just looking, but touching too, kissing, licking, biting—he tries not to let it show on his face. Bucky has enough to deal with without Steve longing after him like a school boy with his first crush, even though that’s what Steve is and—maybe Bucky does know. Steve thinks about the video Nat sent him and how he hasn’t shown Bucky yet, and maybe he won’t, he can’t say, he doesn’t know. It’s unfamiliar territory, and Steve can’t charge headfirst into like he does with everything else; he needs to be practical and careful, because it might scare Bucky off for good. 

But—he hasn’t run yet. He’s seen all the different sides of Steve now that he has to show, and Bucky has stuck around. Still, Steve doesn’t want to make things awkward. He doesn’t remember kissing Bucky, the press of his lips, the taste of him like champagne probably, the feeling of being wrapped up by his arms, by him, and if Bucky remembers he hasn’t said anything. Either he doesn’t remember like Steve, or he remembers and he doesn’t think it’s important enough to share. Whatever the reason, Steve doesn’t want to disrupt what they have between them, or make Bucky feel like he owes Steve something just because Steve is in love with him. So he lets Bucky look, and that’s it.

~

Bucky heads for a shower as soon as they get in, and while normally he would take his time, stand under the spray dissecting all his life choices for forty-five minutes and letting the water claim him, today he finishes in ten minutes, eager to get to his phone. The battery is dead despite no reception on site—the closest they could get was a couple hundred yards away at another site, so that’s something they’ll need to figure out. He plugs it in and opens up the shared drive, ignoring the messages from Sam, Bruce and Nat asking politely about how their honeymoon is going but spare the gory details, thanks, and one from Thor asking impolitely to give him the gory details, instead focusing on the photos. 

They look good in their tuxes, at least, the ones they had leftover from Carol and Maria’s wedding. Steve looks—amazing. His face is flushed from the mead and the both of them are clearly wasted, but they look so—happy. They’re happy, getting married in front of all of their friends, making a commitment to each other. It’s not like they needed a wedding for Steve to know that Bucky would never leave him, wants to be with him always, for the rest of their long lives, but they had one, and now they both know. Bucky knows that Steve feels the same. But if he loved Bucky the way Bucky loves him, a selfish way, a desperate way, wouldn’t he have said something by now?

He keeps looking through the pictures, a lot of them of their friends, until he stumbles across the ones marked KISS_01.png to KISS_39.png, and his breath catches in his throat. That’s for sure him and Steve kissing, his arms wrapped around Steve’s waist and bending him back, Steve’s hands on Bucky’s face, a gross, sloppy kiss that looks like two fish suffocating, probably the best they could do under the circumstances, but it’s still a capital K Kiss. Steve has cake on his hands. Bucky has cake on his face.

Bucky wants to delete the photos, and he probably would if he had the access, but it wouldn’t mean it didn’t happen. Just because he can’t _remember it_ doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. He wants it to have never happened, though, or—he wants a do-over. To be sober this time, kissing Steve because he means it and wants Steve to know, not because he’s too drunk to hold back on the impulse. He wants it to be real. He looks over to his bedside table where his ring sits, too precious for him to take to the mountains where he might lose it. Steve didn’t take his either. 

Steve has probably already looked at the photos and not said anything. Bucky has an excuse, at least—he didn’t look at the photos to begin with, so he can claim ignorance. But how far will that get him, really? It’s not like he doesn’t know they got married. It’s plastered all over the internet for everyone with a working phone to see. People in Bogmalo can see it. All the Hydra agents that survived the Great Purge Of 2014 can see it. It happened. It’s real.

So why doesn’t it feel real?

~

Bucky doesn’t come out of his bedroom that night, so Steve chalks it up to him needing space, which is fine. They don’t have to sleep in the same bed together all the time, it’s good to have space, they need a little time apart every now and then, and other things he tells himself, especially spending last night with their sleeping bags zipped together because it was easier that way to curl around each other like ripening vines and keep Bucky warm. Steve doesn’t object to it, but it makes him wonder if they are too codependent already. They’re not in a relationship, but—are they? Are they in a relationship and Steve didn’t notice? They got _married_, and, oh god, if they’ve been in a not-so-platonic relationship this whole time and Steve didn’t notice he’s going to brain himself on a rock. Is it too late to bring it up? He resists the urge to text Bucky and ask, because: a) he’s probably asleep, b) they can go one whole night without bothering each other, jesus christ Rogers, get a grip, and c) he’s not brave enough to. So he leaves it.

The next day, their plan to head back up, now that they have more of an idea of how to go about this building a cabin business, is interrupted by a call from Natasha.

“Before you freak out, everyone’s fine.”

Steve drops his spoon back into the bowl and Bucky’s fancy soy milk splashes into his lap. “What happened.”

Bucky glances up from his toast, barely awake and hair wild. “Who’s hurt?”

“No one’s—”

_“Ow, Natasha, fuck—”_

“Okay, Clint’s hurt, but the rest of us are fine.” Natasha’s business voice does not reassure Steve at all. 

“Where?”

“Clint’s loft.”

“We’re coming over.”

They’re out the door in thirty seconds, still wearing sweatpants, Bucky with the last of his toast in his mouth as they jump on Steve’s chopper. It hits him like a brick, weaving through traffic with precision as they floor it down the motorway: whereas a couple years ago he would’ve loved the feeling of adrenaline turning his focus sharp, setting his teeth on edge, making him feel alive, now he feels more anxious than anything. He’s more aware than ever that Bucky is on the seat behind him, hanging onto his waist; of course Bucky can take care of himself, but if Steve got into an accident he could still get hurt. He doesn’t heal as quickly as Steve does, and he’s breakable. All that time he was looking for him, Steve was hyper aware that Bucky could die at any moment and Steve might not ever know, might never find him. It’s one of the reasons he wants to keep Bucky close, even though he knows—_he knows_ it’s not healthy, for him or Bucky. 

They get to Clint’s soon enough and when they get inside they’re greeted by the sight of what’s left of the Avengers, all looking a bit bruised up, except for Clint who looks very bruised up, sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing his arm.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, leaning in for a hug that Steve returns. “JB.” Bucky gives him a salute and returns the hug that Natasha gives him, limping a little as she comes over. Wanda, Vision, Peter, Scott, Sharon and Hill are all sacked out in various places around what could generously be called Clint’s living room, but is more accurately a collection of about nine or so—Steve can’t be bothered counting—vibrating arm chairs scattered in front of a wall-mounted plasma tv. There’s a coffee table in there somewhere, Steve’s pretty sure.

“Wanna give me a rundown?”

Sam crosses his arms and sighs. “Zemo, again. The guy’s evaded us three times now. I don’t know how it keeps happening.”

“And this time?”

“Safehouse in Belgrade, one of the Hydra ones we didn’t catch last time. Booby-trapped, obviously, which we planned for.” Steve nods. “Didn’t plan on there being other kinds of weapons, though.”

“The ten rings,” Natasha says, cleaning a cut on Clint’s forehead as he winces. “Or one of them, at least. Stop moving, you baby.”

“Which one?”

“The mind-control one,” Hill says. She comes over to the kitchen and slaps it down on the table for Steve to get a look at. She’s got a bruise on her cheek that’s swelling, all purple and yellow mixed together, and cuts on her forehead, but other than that she seems fine. “Don’t worry, you have to wear it for it to take effect.”

Steve gives it a look over, but doesn’t touch it. “This a Hydra weapon?”

“No,” Bucky says, and Steve turns to look at him. He’s got his hands in his hoodie pockets, looking at the ring instead of at Steve. “They didn’t make it, but they used it. It’s one of the things I was looking for, back when.”

“So Zemo’s off the grid again, with more of these?”

“Maybe,” Sam says. He looks every bit the Captain America he deserves to be, and Steve is so proud of him. “We don’t know yet. Could be he just had the one.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Bucky says. He’s retreated into himself, scowling, on edge. It’s not like him to get like this just at the mention of Zemo’s name, but if he knows what the ring is and how it’s used, then they most likely used it on him.

Steve feels his anger rising. “Do you need me to help you find him?”

“Not you,” Sam says, and they all turn to look at Bucky. “We have some locations, some coordinates that are off the grid. We just need to know what’s there.”

Bucky shrugs, but Steve can tell it’s affecting him worse than he lets on. “Sure. Show me.”

~

Bucky’s been in recovery long enough that the flashbacks he gets don’t phase him as much as they used to, and he can do a job well enough that no one should be worried about him, but Steve hovers the entire time Bucky gives the rest of them as much intel as he can, and Bucky can tell Steve’s chomping at the bit to get him out of there as soon as possible.

It’s over soon enough, anyway, but Steve hustles him out of there without any word to the rest of them, because he’s pissed and they should know it.

“It’s fine, Steve,” Bucky tells him, when they’re back at their apartment, Steve tossing the keys into the bowl by the door a little too hard.

“They shouldn’t drag you back into that mess. You’re retired. We have half a cabin in the woods, now. When will they get the message?”

Bucky snickers. “Uh, as soon as we tell them about it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, looking cowed. “Still, they know you don’t do that anymore. It took such a toll on you last time—”

“Steve.”

Steve looks up at him over the kitchen island, his brow furrowed in concern. Bucky wants to kiss that look off his face, but now would be a bad time to open that can of worms.

“Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t want to help. There’s stuff in my head that not even Shuri could get out, and if it helps them then at least it’s doing something instead of taking up space in my brain. Seriously.” Steve’s anger fades away, and he returns the smile Bucky gives him. “See? I’m all good.”

“All right. Okay, yeah. You’re good. I’m good.”

“Good. What’s for lunch?”

~

The cabin seems to take no time at all to build. Maybe it’s their strength, or maybe it’s the joy of doing something with his hands that isn’t killing or farming, but Bucky finds himself more and more engrossed in the project, and two weeks go by without him noticing. The outside frame is built, they’ve insulated and sealed the logs, laid down the floor, and now they’re building the walls. Steve, naturally, gets plaster and insulation everywhere, which provides endless entertainment for Bucky but doesn’t help them in actually building the cabin. But soon those are done too, and they take a walk around their new home, the bare bones of it, letting it soak in that they did this, together. It vaguely resembles their Red Hook apartment: two bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, laundry, and a living room. They don’t need much more than that.

“Looks pretty good,” Bucky says, and Steve nods, grinning like a fool.

“Not bad for two centenarians.”

Bucky sighs, as content as he could imagine himself being. “Wanna start up the fireplace?”

Steve nods enthusiastically and leads the way to the living room, where there is indeed a fireplace, but not much more than that. They start it up and take a seat in front of it, soaking in the heat as the sun starts to set outside. They’ll need to head back to the city tonight, but right now all they have to do is sit and enjoy each other’s company. The outside world can wait.

It seems an eternity and no time at all when Steve finally speaks. “I looked at the photos.”

Bucky doesn’t need him to clarify which photos. They’ve been on the same page for a century now; they speak a language that only they know. “So did I.”

“They were, ah. I looked at the ones of us—kissing. Nat sent me a video of it.” 

“Did she?” Bucky looks sideways at Steve, turning his voice soft and approachable. He doesn’t want to scare Steve, not when he’s being vulnerable like this. “Can I see it?”

Steve looks at him with an expression that’s both scared and hopeful, and damn him, for never being able to hide himself, who he truly is, what he feels. Damn him for laying it all bare for anyone to ruin. Bucky doesn’t want to ruin him. Bucky wants to be a part of him, wants to crawl into his mouth, etch himself into the marrow of Steve’s bones, so that Steve will never be rid of him. He wants to be swallowed whole.

Steve plays the video on his phone, and it’s like the pictures Bucky saw, only worse, because he can hear it, the noise Steve makes when he leans in to meet Bucky, sees the way he dips Steve back, a dance. Bucky still has cake on his face, and Steve smears more of it on him when his hands come up to cup Bucky’s cheeks. The audience cheers, and then it’s over.

Bucky suddenly finds it very hard not to retreat into himself. He wants to look away, to hide what he’s feeling from Steve, but he can’t bring himself to do that, either. When he looks at Steve again, Steve is terrified—he’s terrified of Bucky’s reaction. So Bucky does the only thing he can do, which is say, “I want to hear that noise again.” 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You want to—?”

“Kiss me again,” Bucky says hurriedly, tongue tripping over the words. He’s not sure Steve gets what he means for half a second, but then Steve leans forward, the way Bucky did in the video, and Bucky meets him there. When their lips touch, it’s not the clash of swords on a battlefield; it’s the lapping of the tide on the shore as a soft wind blows. It’s the sun cresting over the skyline, pushing the moon back. It’s an inevitability. 

Steve’s hands come up again to cradle Bucky’s face, palms on his cheeks, fingers on his jaw, keeping him there as they press their lips together again and again, then nipping at Bucky’s lips softly, licking them open. When Steve’s plush tongue meets his own, he can hear the noise he makes, a soft whimper, and Steve must hear it too because he pulls back.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t know if you meant—is that what you wanted?”

Bucky’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest that surely Steve must hear it. He must hear the way Bucky’s bones call out to him, his skeleton clacking together under his skin, yearning for Steve, trying to throw itself at him while Bucky stays still, stunned, melting in the heat from the way Steve kissed him. His lips burn with the touch. The fire is jealous.

“Yes,” he says, again, “yes, yes, please,” and he says yes until Steve kisses him again, gets his lips on Bucky’s lips, licking past them with that tongue, the silken rub of it teasing at Bucky’s teeth until Bucky teases back. This is what he wanted, didn’t he? Steve, Steve, Steve’s mouth on his mouth, Steve gathering him up, laying him on his back, Steve’s eyes sparkle-bright when he leans over Bucky and asks, is this okay? I didn’t mean to— 

Bucky pulls him down, closer, kisses him until he stops doubting himself, until his doubt washes away and Bucky replaces it with his love. He keeps kissing Steve until Steve is all he knows, his body on Bucky’s body, his lips kissing Bucky’s face, his jaw, his neck, pulling his shirt down to kiss his shoulder, his arm, oh. Oh. He feels that, feels Steve’s lips press against the metal, soft as a hush, pulling his hand up to kiss the rest of it, the inside of his elbow, his forearm, his palm, his knuckles, pressing them against his cheek, feels the heat pouring out of him, feels Steve all over. 

“You don’t know how long I—” Steve starts, starts again, stops. “—I wanted this, too long. So long. My whole life, it feels like. Every single second of it, wanting you. That’s my whole life right there.”

Bucky nods, because he knows, though he doesn’t have the words to express it. Steve shudders to the side, lying down next to him, pulling Bucky in until they’re pressed together, their bodies, as if he wanted to go anywhere, as if he could, pressing his face into Bucky’s neck where his shirt is. 

Steve’s breath ghosts over his skin, warm, lovely. “Can we just—stay? Like this. For a while.”

Bucky nods, trailing his lips over Steve’s hairline. “Wherever you are is where I’ll be too.”

“Good thing we’re married, then.” It’s more of a mumble into Bucky’s skin, but Bucky hears it anyway. They have a lot to do before the cabin is finished, but for now it’s just them, together.

~

The cabin contains, but is not limited to: 18 photos of Steve and Bucky’s wedding, several umbrellas, one toaster that doesn’t work and one that does, a solar-powered hot water system, Steve and Bucky’s handprints in canary yellow on their teal-coloured bedroom door, a hand-crocheted blanket from Clint, a Bucky Bear from Sam, a set of chef’s knives and a vegetable chopper from Natasha, a cross-stitched refusal for any more Asgardian mead, and a wedding certificate framed and hung up in their bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the porny bit don't say i never do nuthin for ya

If Steve thought building was fun before, it’s a riot now that he can break anytime he wants to kiss up on Bucky, pull him close and lay one on him. It’s even better than what he thought being with Bucky would be like, because Bucky kisses up on him, too, comes up behind him when he’s painting and slides his hands up Steve’s shirt, sticks his nose in the hair at the back of Steve’s neck and licks away the sweat where it’s gathered.

“You smell like canary yellow,” Bucky says, kissing the side of Steve’s face where he accidentally swiped paint across it. He pinches Steve’s side hard enough that Steve drops the paintbrush and the tin, causing it to spill all over the plastic on the floor, turning to curse Bucky out before Bucky shuts him up by kissing him. 

The first time they kissed didn’t prepare Steve for how handsy Bucky is, as if now he’s been given permission to touch it’s all he wants to do, but it presents a bit of a problem that leaves Steve finishing himself off in the shower after Bucky’s done with him. The pace they’ve set their relationship at is slow and mostly unspoken, aside from the first time Steve got hard when they were making out like teenagers and Bucky said, “I don’t know if I—is it okay if we don’t—” and Steve said yes, yeah, of course, whatever you want, and they continued kissing. Bucky pulls him away from the paint spill but not very far, tugging him by the hips and pushing him up against the opposite, unpainted wall, still kissing. 

It’s chaotic to be kissed by Bucky. It’s so much of what Steve’s wanted since he got Bucky back and healthy, so much of what he never allowed himself to hope for, because it didn’t matter what Steve wanted, it only mattered that Bucky was okay. And then they settled into their domestic life of napping the afternoons away when they didn’t have Extinction Rebellion rallies to go to or weren’t helping out at Planned Parenthood. The Avengers didn’t need Steve and Bucky anymore, so they were free to do what they liked, and Steve didn’t want to disturb what they had by doing something such as spilling his feelings everywhere like canary yellow paint. It’s okay now, though, because while Steve thought he was too intense for what Bucky could handle, it turns out he had no idea. Bucky’s feelings unrestrained are a tropical storm that Steve wants to stand in the middle of, just to feel everything Bucky is rain down on him. Steve thought that only he had a love that could withstand a century of longing, but he was wrong. He was so wrong.

Turns out Bucky’s been doing his own longing. When he kisses Steve, it’s with the fervour of everything they don’t have the words to say to each other in any language they know. When he kisses Steve, everything else falls away; there’s no time holding them accountable, no messages that need answering, no emergencies that can’t wait. It’s just them, together, like it is now, Bucky licking at Steve’s lips, chasing them to kiss him more, to take everything Steve gives him and then some. With Bucky pressed up against him, it’s become a Pavlovian response for his dick to make itself known; annoying as it is, Steve tries to ignore it instead of drawing attention to it and ruining the mood. There’s no way Bucky can’t feel it though, but Steve will be patient with him, if he wants to do anything about it—even if he doesn’t. Steve’s just happy to be with him, however Bucky wants. 

However, Bucky seems to have his own plans. His hands are already on Steve’s stomach pressing fingers into his hip bones, but he drags his metal hand lower until it squeezes Steve’s erection, earning him a punch-out moan of pent-up frustration.

“Can I?” Bucky says, sounding unsure. 

“If it’s what you want,” Steve says, not looking at him but instead at his hands on Steve’s body, how right they look, how right they feel.

“It is. I want it.” 

Steve looks at him then, at the open need on his face, the unguarded look of desperation. “Then take it.”

Bucky huffs out a breath and squeezes again, earning himself another moan that Steve can’t help but give. “You really that hard up, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” Steve says, but he’s laughing, trying not to push into Bucky’s hand, trying to let him set the pace. “Yeah, you got me all riled up, congratulations.”

“Should I do something about it then?” Bucky’s hand starts to massage him through his jeans, and it’s so uncomfortable but so hot at the same time that Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“I might cry if you don’t.”

Bucky laughs. “Okay then, pal.” He skillfully undoes the button on Steve’s jeans before he reaches a hand in, the metal one, and pulls Steve’s dick out, already hard and leaking before Bucky’s even touched him. “Would you look at that,” he says, but then he starts to stroke and Steve gives up trying to pinpoint exactly what Bucky is and what he’s doing, the inconceivable mass of him, the force he is. 

Bucky kisses him as he works Steve over, and it’s been so long Steve’s not going to last more than a couple minutes. He never lasts that long anyway, but the upshot of that is he has a refractory period of about ten minutes. He feels like now Bucky’s decided to take a step in that direction, Steve is going to need it. 

“How long can you go for?” Bucky asks, his eyes glassy as they search Steve’s face. His pupils are wide, his breaths short, his mouth slack, and yeah, maybe he’s turned on too, and maybe now Steve knows this he’s going to come a lot sooner.

“Oh, god, Buck, no time at all.”

“Yeah, me either,” Bucky says, in a purposefully conversational tone, as if he’s talking about the weather and not what he’s doing to Steve’s dick. “Get hard, stay hard, come fast, now that my head is mine again. I can last longer the second time around, which is good because the first doesn’t last at all, and it’s embarrassing, right? Isn’t it? To not be able to control yourself, to be that turned on.”

“No,” Steve says, barely more than a breath. “Not for me when it’s you.”

Bucky’s expression turns soft but he’s still keeping up his pace and Steve’s belly gets tight with the feeling of his oncoming release. He’s so turned on it hurts, he needs Bucky to do something, and when Bucky pauses to spit in his hand before stroking Steve again, Steve comes right then, spilling over Bucky’s metal hand, over his ring. “Fuck, I can feel that. It’s warm.” He brings his hand up to lick it clean, and Steve’s brain promptly exeunt stage left. Instead of trying to muster the brainpower to say something, Steve grabs Bucky’s hips and pulls him in, chasing his mouth again. 

He continues kissing him for another minute until he can think of something to say. “Let me return the favour.” Steve grabs a hold of Bucky’s perfect ass and uses the leverage to push a knee through Bucky’s thighs, letting Bucky grind on him for a minute until his sweatpants are soaked through and Steve gets a better idea. “Wait, let me—” He pushes Bucky off him, but not far, and then sinks to his knees, grabbing a hold of Bucky’s hips to steady himself. “I wanna suck you off,” Steve says, putting as much surety into his voice as possible. He wants this. He wants Bucky to know he wants this.

“Sure, doll, whatever you want.” Bucky’s voice in contrast is light and full of laughter. His hands come up to Steve’s head and shoulder, petting him gently as Steve figures out where to start. Bucky’s sweatpants, getting them down, obviously. Steve’s done this before—maybe not in this position, more on a bed with the guy on his back—it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he’s doing this. 

He tugs on the waistband of Bucky’s sweatpants until his cock springs free, and—it’s nice, flushed red, cut, veined, fits perfectly in Steve’s hand like it was made for him to wrap his fingers around, which earns him a choked-off curse from Bucky. When Steve strokes, pearls of come drip down the shaft onto his fingers, and he has to—can’t help himself, he wants to as badly as he wanted to hold Bucky’s hand, as badly as he wants to kiss Bucky all the time—he leans in to lap them up, tasting him, the sourness of him that Steve is immediately addicted to, fastens his lips over the head of Bucky’s cock just to taste more of him. 

Bucky’s hand tightens in his hair, and Steve can tell it’s taking him effort not to push his hips forward, but Steve doesn’t care. He sinks down as far as he can, loving it, loving the feeling of Bucky in his mouth, inside him, filling him up, dribbling down his throat. Steve wants to be full of him. 

“Jesus fucking—Steve, _Steve_.” Bucky’s moans spur him on as he pulls back just to sink down again, getting Bucky slick with his spit and come, and it’s dirty, it’s hot to have Bucky like this, taking him in further each time his mouth slides down Bucky’s cock, and Steve’s hard again, like he knew he would be, but it’s enough this time to suck Bucky like his life depends on it. 

“Shit, pal, I’m gonna come,” Bucky says, and Steve pulls back to suckle at the head of his cock and stroke him with his hand until Bucky unloads into Steve’s mouth with a cry, Steve swallowing as much as he can, gasping, licking at his chin as the rest of Bucky’s release spills out of his mouth. “Fucking hell. Fuck, that was—” Bucky doesn’t seem to have the words, and Steve grins up at him. “Where did you—I don’t care, okay, you did that for me and that’s what matters.”

“I’ll do that for you every day you want me to,” Steve says.

Bucky smiles, and it’s one of the best things Steve’s ever seen. Bucky, smiling, that’s what his life is about. Whether it’s at the roadside handing out cups of water to runners knowing damn well he’d smoke every one of them, or biting into a veggie tostada first thing in the morning, or waking up in bed next to Steve, because they can do that now without any of the guilt they had before that maybe it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what they should be doing, it could ruin them—it is, it is, and it didn’t. 

“Can you get up here please so I can kiss the shit out of you?”

Steve laughs as he gets up, and Bucky does kiss him, and it’s good, it’s always good, because they’re married and in love, and Bucky may be lucky, but Steve’s luckier to have him, and they get to have this, this bubble, this domestic bliss, for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [twitter](http://twitter.com/verzacefatale) where i'm usually saying some stupid shit

**Author's Note:**

> \- I wrote this whole fic not knowing how to pronounce Adirondacks and now that I’ve finished it I still don’t know  
\- I already knew how to do some of cutting down trees stuff bcos i am a lesbian and lesbians know how to do things jk not rly my dad cut firewood for a living and i never thought it would come in handy dad are you proud of me  
\- Yes I know Shuri is incredible but just for the purposes of this fic she couldn’t fix everything and sometimes Bucky has nightmares and needs a good cry  
\- The large gap in my research is how long it takes to build a 900 square foot cabin. I couldn’t find it out so IDK!!!! I just GUESSED OKAY I guessed… sobbing…  
\- Porn in the next chapter ehehehehehehehhe


End file.
